The Chamber of Weavers in the capital of Zayros was unusually quiet.
A hushed reverence had descended upon the opulent dome where threads of trade, wealth, and politics were typically tangled with roaring ambition. Ornately dressed representatives from the top conglomerates sat rigid in their seats, their gazes locked on a single figure standing at the center of the chamber—Rael Ethros.
Clad in imperial black with golden trim, Rael's calm yet imposing presence had rendered the entire court still. The Merchant Sovereign's every movement now carried weight, his words the fulcrum upon which many empires would tilt.
"I did not come to speak of tribute," Rael began, voice smooth but authoritative. "Nor of interest rates or trade dues. I came to speak of purpose—and the rot I've seen growing behind polished walls."
Gasps stirred the gallery. Several dignitaries stiffened. Others exchanged wary glances.
